Rain Girl (19 page)

The DA was at the point in life they all were. Not yet old—just not young anymore. It was a fact weighing heavily on someone like him. More than once he’d had the bitter experience of young upstarts—
really
young upstarts—passing him on their way up the career ladder.

He was perfectly aware of how this had happened. The others were already on the other side while he had yet to cross the street. The others were already lined up and waiting for their feed at the great career feeding trough while he was still struggling to get there. He’d never gotten his hands on a really spectacular criminal or political case; those always happened somewhere else—in Berlin or Hamburg or other big cities, but never in this town, which he wished he could crunch between his regularly-serviced-by-Max teeth.

He could feel the iron hand of irrelevancy and lack of recognition. It was a catastrophe for someone like him, who was ambitious and hungry and restless. He was gradually beginning to panic with the fear of abysmal failure—the awareness he’d not made it.

The mountain called
career
was beginning to look too steep, the summit too far off. His longing was turning into fear of the permanent night of old age. He was out of breath and the night was closing in on him.

Franza knew all this straight from his wife’s mouth, which amused her, but—understandably—provoked him. But she enjoyed her cups of coffee with his wife, who was the neighbor’s daughter from her childhood by the brook. Being carried away from their childhood floods on their fathers’ shoulders was bonding, and because Franza didn’t use her knowledge to her advantage and because Sonja Brückl needed a shoulder from time to time, Franza lent her one.

Franza always maintained, when discussing the subject with Felix, that if it weren’t for her and her shoulder, the Brückls wouldn’t even be the Brückls anymore.

“Are you two having coffee again?” Felix asked grimly. He obviously hadn’t regained his sense of humor yet. “To discuss the latest blow?”

Yes, that’s what it was. A blow. But it couldn’t be helped; they just had to keep going. And that’s what they did, taking Lauberts’s slippers, which they’d found under the bed, back with them for DNA analysis. He’d taken his toothbrush wherever he’d run off to, damn him!

They’d completely screwed this up! They could have easily had his DNA ages ago—he’d drunk water in their office, and there’d been a dirty glass with him all over it. They should have asked him if he wanted to smoke.

But they hadn’t! What a screwup! Just because he didn’t
look
like a murderer. What the hell did a murderer look like anyway? Only now that he’d disappeared . . .

As soon as they had arrived back at the precinct, they sent a young uniformed colleague to Borger with the shoes and a note attached that read “URGENT!”

Then they had gotten on their phones: one to locate the children’s boarding schools, the other the wife’s holiday destination. Both proved difficult.

Finally they reached the schools, the elite institutions they’d expected. Lauberts hadn’t turned up at either of them, which they’d also expected. Still another blow. He might’ve wanted to see his kids.

47

Borger arrived and they immediately quizzed him about the slippers. His expression turned strangely indignant, somehow reminding Franza of Frau Brigitte. “I’m good, thanks,” Borger said. “How are you?”

“Sorry,” Franza said. “But the slippers!”

Borger shook his head uncomprehendingly. “What slippers?”

If Felix hadn’t regained his bad mood completely already, he did now. “What do you mean?” he thundered. “What do you mean: what slippers?”

Borger shrugged, took one of the visitors’ seats, and loosened his tie. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Could someone perhaps enlighten me?” He smiled in Arthur’s direction. “The young colleague, perhaps?”

Franza had to grin despite herself.
Indeed,
she thought.
Is he actually turning gay in his old age?

She tapped his shoulder and told him Lauberts’s story from the beginning. When she was halfway through, someone knocked on the door. The young uniformed police officer stood in the doorway, still holding the plastic bag with the slippers.

“I couldn’t find him,” he said. “There’s only one Dr. Berger in the entire hospital, and he’s a psychiatrist and didn’t know what to do with the slippers.”

“Borger,” Borger said and smiled. “Not Berger, dear boy, Borger.”

“Oh!” the man said, bracing himself against the doorjamb in order not to fall over.

Shit,
Franza thought,
why is everything going wrong today?

“Well, now you’ve found me.” Borger smiled.

“Yes,” muttered the young man, deeply embarrassed. “I have.”

Franza looked at Felix and knew he was about to explode.

“Out!” he said, trying hard to hold his breath. “Get out!”

“Yes,” the young man whispered. “OK. I’m already gone.”

He turned pale, took a step back, and was about to close the door when Felix’s voice roared: “STOP!”

The whole room seemed to shake. Arthur thought admiringly:
Wow!
Borger studied his fingernails, and Franza decided to consult an ear specialist sometime soon. The young man froze and feared for his life for a moment.

“The shoes,” Felix asked, perfectly calm again. “Do you want to take them with you again? Maybe try Dr. Berger one more time?”

“Yes,” the young man whispered, utterly unnerved. “No.”

Carefully he placed the plastic bag with the shoes on the floor, stepped out into the corridor, and closed the door so quietly they couldn’t hear a sound.

“Jesus,” Borger sighed, looking at Arthur. “Young people today.”

We could pass for a cabaret,
Franza thought resignedly, closing her eyes for a few seconds.
If it weren’t so serious, they could turn us into a nightclub act with buffoons and clowns
.

“OK,” she said. “Enough. When can we have your results, Borger? As you may have noticed, it’s urgent.”

“As always,” Borger sighed. “I’ll get right onto it. But can I first share my news?”

He could. And it was worth it.

“The cigarette butts,” he said. “The ones from yesterday. Bingo. One hundred percent match with the DNA from Tuesday.”

Franza swallowed, a light shiver running down her spine. Felix’s suspicion had been right.
Good old sleuth,
she thought tenderly and was grateful for his hand on her back.

Borger raised his eyebrows. “Have I missed something?”

“Yes,” Felix said slowly. “You have indeed. It’s getting hot.”

He looked out the window with the rain lashing against it and the wind howling, and tapped his finger against the glass. “But don’t take it too hard. Here’s the short version for you.”

When Borger had heard about the murderer’s interaction with Franza, his eyes were wide.

“Yes, but the hair you gave me,” he said, “that’s a mystery. It doesn’t match anything. Sorry to disappoint you.”

Franza closed her eyes, smiled, and breathed a sigh of relief. A weight was lifted from her—a stone, a huge boulder. At least she didn’t have to worry about her son’s innocence. “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you. When this is over I’m taking you all out to dinner.”

Strange day,
Borger thought, perplexed, and looked at Felix for help, but he only grinned.

“Are you two OK?” he asked, looking from one to the other. “Are you sure this case isn’t getting to you?”

Franza turned serious. “Yes,” she said. “I am now. Now I’m sure.”

Frowning, Borger sat down on the windowsill. “Am I supposed to get it?” He looked at Arthur. “Do you get it?”

Arthur shook his head. “No, not everything. But I’m used to it.” He grinned. Borger sighed.

“That’s what I was afraid of. But speaking of dinner . . .” He had the report of what was in Marie’s stomach.

“This might actually help you,” he said mysteriously, spreading his notes carefully in front of them. “Our girl had a fancy dinner. You don’t eat something like this every day, and more importantly, not everywhere.”

For sure,
Felix thought. He gulped down a cup of coffee while Borger went into a detailed description of all the delicacies Marie Gleichenbach had consumed that night, just so they could be removed from her stomach and analyzed by tie-Borger.

He finished his presentation with effusive praise for the protein content of anything swimming around in the ocean, followed by a lecture directed at Felix about the importance of aforementioned proteins for the health and fitness of certain parts of the body.

“Well,” Felix said, grinning. “My loins seem to be doing just fine without me eating that stuff—I’m becoming a father again. Twice over, actually!”

Borger was amazed. “You don’t say! Good for you, old stud!”

They decided to celebrate Felix’s growing family over a few drinks that evening.
Men, fatherhood, and alcohol,
Franza thought and had to laugh.
What a cliché!

“Every French restaurant, every Greek and Italian, just every restaurant offering Mediterranean cuisine,” Franza instructed Arthur. “And, of course, every seafood place. Maybe we’ll be lucky and someone will remember something.”

Arthur didn’t seem overly enthusiastic. “But I’m working on Frau Hauer.”

Felix waved dismissively. “Forget about her. Old news, she’s out. That tired unhappy relationship trail has gone cold.”

“But,” Arthur said, “it makes sense. Marie stole her lover. So she might have . . .”

“No, it wasn’t her, believe me. I’ve got a nose for these things. What do you smell, Franza?”

“The same.” She shrugged regretfully at Arthur.

“Well, then, we’ve all agreed. So, what are you waiting for?” Felix gave Arthur an encouraging look. “Sometimes that’s just the way it is: a thousand hours of hard work just to find one piece of the puzzle—you’ll have to get used to it if you want to grow old here. And you want to, I can tell by looking at you.”

Is that so,
Arthur thought,
and what do you see? Boogers? Snot dripping? Bullshit!

“Cheer up,” Franza said looking out at the relentless rain. “I know it’ll be a lot of running around, but at least it’s a nice day for it.”

“That’s life,” Felix said. “Take Robert with you so you can divide the restaurants between you. Don’t forget Marie’s photo.”

“Well, looks like we made our young colleague’s day,” Borger said.

“Yes,” Franza said. “You could say that.”

48

Dinner had been a success. He knew she loved seafood, so he’d reserved a table at the most expensive seafood restaurant in town. The restaurant had two private rooms for its wealthiest customers to dine in undisturbed. He’d booked one of them, which had made the evening a whole lot more expensive, but he couldn’t risk being seen with her. Not when things had not yet been decided.

Jumbo shrimp appetizers followed by entrées of sea bass on char, grilled vegetables, and puree of truffles. For dessert, two kinds of chocolate mousse with raspberry sauce. He’d ordered champagne to go with the meal—Moët & Chandon—the most expensive on the menu.

“You can see what you’re worth to me,” he’d said. She’d been reserved at first, and he’d noticed it right away. She hadn’t accepted his present—his wife was wearing the pearls now.

Never mind, he’d thought. She’ll come around.

The dinner had been perfect; they wanted for nothing. The table decorated in cream and silver, the white flowers, the polished glasses. Marie in that dress that could have been a wedding dress—the strings of pearls gray and translucent like the rain on that day, and today.

49

Marie’s essays showed sensitivity, her handwriting was clean and smooth, her grammar and syntax good. But other than that, one and a half hours of searching her room proved fruitless. No trace of a list of names, no phone numbers.

Franza sighed. It was painstaking, as always. Searching and searching without even knowing what you’re searching for. Solving mysteries that ended up not being mysteries at all.

At least they’d found bank statements, showing Marie was not exactly poor. The inheritance from her grandfather had lived on not only in her soul, but also as a considerable amount in her bank account. In addition, her statements showed a steady stream of deposits into her account. There was a generous monthly transaction, probably from her parents, but far more interesting were the large cash deposits made at irregular intervals—apparently the fees paid by certain men for certain services. Arthur would visit the bank later to ask the details.

The apartment was quiet. Everyone had gone to work or to school. The only one there was a young intern who’d retreated to the office to be left in peace.

Then someone knocked at the door of Marie’s room, loudly and vehemently. Cosima.

“Hey,” she said. “Can he go?” She nodded toward Felix, who immediately lifted his hands in surrender.

“I’m already gone,” said Felix.
Wham!
he thought of his first impression of her.
She’ll just knock me down if I don’t go voluntarily
.

“You’re here? I thought . . .” Franza began with surprise.

Cosima shook her head. “Never mind.”

She took her time, walking beside the bookshelves, brushing the spines with her index finger. Then she leaned against the windowsill and looked out at the street.

We all do that,
Franza thought,
all the time, looking out of windows, at streets, at houses, at the sky, trees, the countryside, the rain. What do we think we’ll find?

“My name’s Cosima,” Cosima said eventually and turned around. “Did you know that?”

Franza nodded and Cosima continued, unperturbed. “My father’s an average-to-bad orchestra conductor. Wagnerian, if you know what that is. He called everyone around him Cosima—his dog, the cat, me, even my mother, although she already had a name. He thought it was . . . uncompromising. What do you think?”

“Strange,” Franza said.